


An Anger Inside

by OctarineSparks



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-30
Updated: 2014-01-30
Packaged: 2018-01-10 13:00:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1160013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OctarineSparks/pseuds/OctarineSparks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John is in danger, Sherlock's bitter thoughts press upon him so. S3 spoilers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Anger Inside

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't intended to be Mary bashing, just the petulant thoughts we all have when someone else plays with our toys. ;)

This is how they get you, he thinks, running his hands through his hair. They go for your weak point. He should have been more careful, but too late now. The world knows that John Watson is his Achilles heel, and fuck it if it wasn't already too late. Mycroft was right. That sentiment's a real bitch. Now he's lost in a sea of regrets, the crushing degrees of what an idiot he's been his only company. 

Mary is crying, because of course she is. He's trying not to bitter that John found someone else to love him as much as Sherlock did, as it's hardly constructive, but it's there like a poison dart, spreading through his mind, adding to his culpability. 

If John dies, that's it. The final proof that he'd always suspected. Nothing is safe from his infection, not even John. Especially not John. He blames everyone else but himself, because it's easier to think straight when this isn't all his fault. 

"Where would they take him?" Mary says, pointlessly, stupidly. If Sherlock knew the answer to that then there is where he would be. But she can't be blamed for her foolish heart. John should be blamed for letting her in.

Two years isn't such a long time. Certainly not long enough to move on so completely. And if John was hurting he should have found some other way to heal, not latch on to the first bint who battered her eyelashes at him and made him feel whole again. But Sherlock knows, deep down, that he was looking for refuge from the nightmare his life had become after the fall. He should have called. 

"I don't know what I'd do if ..." She can't finish. He wouldn't be able to either. She places her hands on her swollen stomach protectively, her only link now to a man who is missing in a world where he should never be. 

Sherlock hates her. 

"He's going to be ok. We'll find him." Empty promises to himself. 

If there was no marriage and no baby, Sherlock knows it wouldn't change a thing. John seems not to realise that he affects people so, makes them want to give up all that they are just to keep him safe. Funny, when there was so much evidence to support it, but that was John all over. Seeing, not observing. And now he was gone, taken in the night and Sherlock had no idea where to begin. 

Don't be dead. 

The words ring hollow in his ears. It was easier because he was already alive, a promise to keep that had already been fulfilled, and fuck the fact that he had to wait two years to tell him so. 

Just stop this.

Yes. Stop this. Come home, John Watson. And yes, it's incredibly selfish, but come home to me. Domesticity doesn't suit you. I do.

"Please, Sherlock, what do we do?" Still talking, still pleading. And she put a bullet in your chest. 

"Sherlock?" He doesn't talk. Somehow he's managed to make this all her fault. If she'd never shown up, John would still be where he was supposed to be, sitting his chair, sipping tea and pulling Sherlock up short. She ruined everything. 

"Sherlock, please."

He's trying hard not to snap. Trying to bite back the words to tell her that John belongs to him. He was his first, I never said you could have him. But then, Sherlock thinks, you gave him up. You know you did. This is all your fault after all.

His phone beeps, and the noise is welcome. Something, anything to pull him from these hateful thoughts. 

He's safe. We found him in a warehouse in Brixton. - GL

He breathes. Shows Mary the message, and sees her all but melt into the chair. 

"He's ok. He's alright." Sherlock relishes the sound of the words as they fall from his lips. The world at large still had John Watson in it, even if his own didn't anymore. 

"Oh, thank God," Mary says, and she stands to leave as she knows they will both go to him. But Sherlock will be a spare part, a third wheel to their little universe. 

He was mine.

So petulant. 

He's not yours anymore. 

They climb into a cab bound for Scotland Yard. Sherlock's mind spins with the idea of what a selfish prick he'd been, and Mary seems not to notice. She knows what she is, a succubus who drew away the only thing Sherlock had in the whole wide world. 

He really does hate her for that. 

But the light in John's eyes, the one he so thoughtlessly extinguished, has been relit by her presence, whereas his own return brought only conflict and darkness to John. He is bad for John, whereas John is nothing but good for him. That's not how it's supposed to work, he thinks. How can one person need another, and have that person suffer as a result. Fairy tales are a lie, and he is left behind. 

It's still there, he thinks, sometime later after the emotional reunion between the Watsons. My grave stone, with nothing but empty space beneath it. And yet, he and John have been, unknowingly , unwillingly, filling it with everything they used to be, the gaping maw accepting a different type of sacrifice in lieu of the body it was owed. 

Two years is a lifetime, and Sherlock is right back where he started. 

Alone.


End file.
